


In Which Mycroft Finds Peace in Doodling

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft only likes guys that like his brother: fact, Poor Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lets out a low whistle. "That's deplorable," he mumbles to himself, quickly flipping through the pages. One of them gives him pause; his eyes widen and his mouth curls into a smirk that could only be called devious.</p><p>"What?" I lean over, try to see the page he's looking at.</p><p>Quickly, he snatches the book away and grins at me. He's put on his normal-person, oh-so-innocent look, and he says, "Are you sure you'd like to see it, John? I know how much respect you have for my brother, and how disappointed he'd be if he knew you were going through his personal belongings."<br/>---<br/>Sherlock steals Mycroft's notebook.</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p><p>COMPLETE & PROOFED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mycroft Finds Peace in Doodling

_John:_

"Look at what I nicked," Sherlock grins, waggling a small leather notebook in the air. I lift an eyebrow, and he positively beams. "Took it off Mycroft," he explains, cracking it open. "He's always scratching away in this thing whenever we're in the air. Says it calms him."

I sit back and give him a small, perfunctory smile. Sherlock's just come back from the south of France, his nose and cheekbones rosy-gold, in an expensive new suit (perfectly tailored, of course) and with the joy of another case solved still fresh in his eyes. All at Mycroft's expense, mind. And I can't neglect to mention that we're sitting in one of the nicest cars I've ever seen, on the way to a restaurant I can barely afford to  _glance_ at, to enjoy a celebratory dinner- just the two of us, at that- on Mycroft's dime. Never mind that the man has paid our rent three out of the last five months, or that he's been discretely placing groceries and toiletries in our flat since I've moved in. Not that I don't enjoy his and Sherlock's little sibling rivalry, but I worry about the sharp decline our lifestyle would take if Sherlock decided to press one button too many. Looking at the worn leather and heavily thumbed pages of that notebook, I wonder if maybe this isn't that final button.

Sherlock lets out a low whistle. "That's deplorable," he mumbles to himself, quickly flipping through the pages. One of them gives him pause; his eyes widen and his mouth curls into a smirk that could only be called devious.

"What?" I lean over, try to see the page he's looking at.

Quickly, he snatches the book away and grins at me. He's put on his normal-person, oh-so-innocent look, and he says, "Are you sure you'd like to see it, John? I know how much respect you have for my brother, and how disappointed he'd be if he knew you were going through his personal belongings."

"Give me the damn book," I growl, and I take it from him without much difficulty. It's upside-down; I turn it over. Instantly, my eyes widen and my lips pull in to contain the varied and unpleasant things I'd like to say.

There's a sketch, done in simple pencil, and it's of me. Well, me as I was five years ago, maybe, although I don't recall ever posing so…seductively, being as there was a war going on and all. I'm shirtless, my dog tags showing prominently on my generously sculpted chest. Embarrassingly, my camo pants are slung low on my waist and my hip bones are protruding obscenely. "Oh, for heaven's sake," I groan, tossing the notebook back into Sherlock's lap. He scoops it up greedily and continues thumbing through it, sometimes emitting a sharp cackle of delight, sometimes merely snickering under his breath.

"There are dozens of them, John," he says with almost palpable excitement, his eyes positively shining.

I cross my arms and hope I'm not overly flushed. "You'll give that back to him right away," I say, in my best commanding officer voice.

Sherlock merely smirks. "I think I'll let you give it back," he drawls, setting it back in my lap (and open to an incredibly uncomfortable sketch of Mycroft and me kissing under an open umbrella). "That, or let him find it in our flat."

"You wouldn't."

"I will." He smiles at me, blinking his eyes in a way that he thinks makes him look innocent. Glancing back out the window, he sighs, "I knew my brother fancied you, but my oh my…"

My frown deepens, and I stuff the notebook in my chest pocket as the car slows outside the restaurant. Thankfully, we both forget it as we discuss the case over dinner, the details still new and thrilling even to Sherlock (though his story-telling, as always, leaves something to be desired).

Later, at home, I rediscover the notebook and grimace, my cheeks going pink. I have half a mind to look at the "dozens" of sketches inside its oft-used pages, but instead I stuff it in an envelope and drop it in the mail the next day on the way to Tesco, the sender's field left quite intentionally blank.


End file.
